A Question (And One Thousand More)
by Farsong
Summary: Bound to the door at the edge of infinity, the Great Seal observes the void and contemplates enigmas: both those that have been solved and those that may never be.


_**(Once, there were two gods born from the first sentient minds. Once, there were two gods who wished to understand the hearts of those who created them. Once, there were two gods who made a bet upon humanity's fate.)**_

_**(Once, a living doll presented humanity with the enigma that he called Life and promised a miracle to the one who could find the answer.)**_

A question: "What makes life worth living?"

The trouble with being dead is that it's very lonely. Or maybe it is not lonely at all and the reason you don't see anyone is because holding the Night and Darkness apart means you're trapped in between, neither alive nor dead and divorced from normality. Though those you want are never there, you're not _alone_. Not quite. Creatures glide in the space beyond spaces you inhabit. (You used to love people-watching.) You may be shackled to the Great Seal from head to knee to toe, but you have not been blinded.

There is a reason for that. There always is.

You see the Night herself, waiting in the earth's orbit for her chance to dance in the infinite eyes of the universe. She cannot act on her own, reliant on her husband extending his hand and leading her down to the land she will ravage. She does not wish the end of all things any more than the sun wishes to scorch the world in the throes of a supernova: it is an inevitable event outside of her control and you have lost all the hatred you once held for her, before. Eternity as a living barrier has given you plenty of time to ponder the truths beyond reality. It is hard to be petty and vicious in the face of forever. You are no longer what you were.

You see the Darkness born from the worst parts of humanity, scratching away at your barrier. He is forever tearing away with the force of the world's despair and desire for oblivion, endlessly trying to clear the way for his wife to descend and bring death to a land dreaming of desolation. You despise him not for his own sake but for what he represents, in the manner that one of the species you once were might hate a volcano for erupting: he is inevitable and immortal and implacable and a suitable outlet for your lingering rage, though he can do naught but scream. Sometimes, you revel in it.

You have plenty of rage to spare for that _abomination_, for a world which thinks that the best thing it can do is give up and die and dIe AnD DIE-

You see the Martyr, your true self reflected in the Universe and the manifest form of your resolve to save everyone. It is with infinite patience that they attend you in your chains, their humanesque face proof that you used to be more than a stopgap for humanity's nihilism. You definitely need the reminder. They clean your crown of thorns and ensure your blood doesn't rust your chains, wipe away your tears of agony as the Monster rips you apart again and again and again. They never speak and never need to, as much a part of you as your heartbeat and marrow, their strength ringing in your mind as both clangor and knell.

You see the shadow of your resolve sit by the barrier you made, stroking out notes on a lyre made of coffin wood. They sing to the void everything you know about love, about life, about everything you sacrificed yourself to preserve in a last act of defiance. You may be fettered to the lock with spike and nail and razor, but you have not been deafened. They exist to help you remember what the torture would have you forget: sometimes it grows too painful and you wish that they would stop, but they are the part of you that knows they cannot and their music drowns out your complaints.

You cannot forget, not ever, not a single word or face or name because the day when you forget the Answer is the day that the Night will take the stage.

You see the death god who once slept beside your spirit, harbinger of his mother's eventual ruin. Though he has now returned to his true duties he still makes time to visit, bringing tales of the most interesting ghosts to have taken his hand and slipped down into an afterlife you will never see. You remember loving him and ignoring him and hating him and taking his hand and _loving him_ in worlds that run the parallel straits of what might have, did not and did: his presence and his words help you to retain an attachment to the world you guard, though you may not respond in any way. Passive senses you may have, but silk is threaded through your lips.

You see the blue servant who guided you to your death, female and male and both and neither in a thousand worlds just as real as each other. They come and temporarily free you from your torment every now and again on what they say is the anniversary of your beginning, but you are not entirely sure. Time does not exist here. They have changed since you took up the mantle of the Seal, in a way that you and the other beings of non-reality cannot: their impossibly true self is in antithesis of their creator's intent, and when they summon with the clean crack of a card you feel your first shard of hope in a long, long time.

They are not mortal and never have been, yet both exhibit traits that have long been solely ascribed to those who live in the world. Another question, this one yet unanswered: does that mean that you can too?

Those who hold infinite possibilities within a single body are both cursed and blessed with greatness. They must give and give and give, spend time and themselves on those around them in exchange for power and support and the ability to change the world, and they never, ever worry about the consequences of such an act. They hollow themselves out and fill the cracks with their bonds, make a space for a greater entity to act through them and sacrifice something intrinsic to their being in the process. But once the entity is gone and the world has been changed and the power is no longer needed, what is left behind?

Here is the paradox that defines your being: you sacrificed your life and humanity in order to claim Martyr and forge the Great Seal, to protect the world from this single apocalypse even as other gods and demons create their own. You are no longer what you were, and all of your bonds were sealed in the shell of your mortal form. Though they treat you otherwise, you're not _dead_. Not quite. Not while the memories of them persist. The pain, the terror, the isolation and grief and despair; knowing that their lives go on gives you the courage to do the same. They make it all worth it.

An answer: "Love does."


End file.
